


don't write yourself off yet (it's only in your head)

by trustingno1



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe you just need a better coach," Andy suggests, deadpan, and Roger can't help but laugh. </p>
<p>(post Australian Open 2009).</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't write yourself off yet (it's only in your head)

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting some older fics to AO3. Originally posted 07.02.2009
> 
> Title from Jimmy Eat World's _The Middle_.

He's hunched over on the bench - elbows digging into his thighs, head down, way down - when the well-worn pair of sneakers stop in front of him.

"Seriously?" Andy asks, rhetorically, dropping onto the bench next to him, and Roger turns his head slightly.

"Andy," he replies, conversationally, and Andy tugs the bill of his cap lower. Then, after a pause, "What are you doing here?"

"I always hang around for a few days - after. I like Melbourne," he purposely misunderstands the question, and Roger lets it go. "Just so you know," Andy continues, flatly, and Roger glances up, "if you cry again? I'm totally leaving."

Roger snorts as Andy leans back on the bench. "I'll ... try to keep that in mind."

"Maybe you just need a better coach," Andy suggests, deadpan, and Roger can't help but laugh.

"You're a funny guy, Andy."

"Well - you know. If this tennis thing falls though..." he trails off.

"Not _that_ funny," Roger replies, and Andy clutches his chest in mock pain.

"Dick." Roger opens his mouth - feigns surprise - and Andy grins, briefly, back at him, before adding, "Kid's - what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? Flash in the pan."

Roger smiles a little - wryly. "You don't really believe that."

"Of course not," he nudges Roger's knee with his. "But it helps to think like that. Trust me," and Roger nods slightly - almost automatically - before he hears, _really_ hears, what Andy's saying, and he glances over, his gaze an odd mix of sheepish and understanding.

"Ah."

"Yeah," and even Andy's smiling ruefully. "Look, losing sucks, OK? It does. But most of us get to do our crying in the locker room showers," he pauses, then adds, lightly, "Like Juan. 'Though he might've been trying to drown himself."

"For good reason," Roger replies, and it's unintentionally arrogant, in a way that doesn't irritate Andy nearly as much as it used to. "That was embarrassing for him." Then - after a beat - "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

Roger waves his hand vaguely. "Cry in the shower," and it's not a serious questions, so Andy snorts and pats his back - ends it with an almost affectionate rub - and Roger half-smiles.

"Only when you beat me, Roger."

"That's a lot of crying," and Andy flips him off with both hands. "I'm kidding," Roger adds quickly, even though Andy _knows_ , and Andy shakes his head as Roger closes his eyes.

Andy sighs, scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, maybe it's a failure by your crazy standards, but only one other guy in the _entire world_ has had a better start to the year. I mean, so far this year, your worst result is runner up in a major slam," he waves his hands, continues, mockingly, " _Oh no_. You dropped, what, like - two sets before last night?"

Roger cracks open his eyes to squint at him. "Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"No, freak show. If you need an ego boost, you need a fucking therapist. I mean, dude, you're Roger fucking Federer."

Roger starts, amused, before leaning in. "... I'm _sorry_?"

"Say it. 'I'm Roger fucking _Federer'_ ," and they're both laughing, and it's an _easy_ camaraderie, born of nearly a decade on circuit together.

After a pause, Andy offers, almost reluctantly, "You'll get it. You will."

"Thanks," Roger finally says, and Andy just nods. "You know, I'm not going to go easy on you in Birmingham," he adds, turning to watch as Andy leans forward, mirrors Roger's position.

"I wouldn't want you to," he replies, easily. "I'm going to beat you, anyway."

"Really?"

"Really," Andy shrugs.

"Good luck with that."

" _Such_ a dick," Andy laughs, a little breathlessly, and Roger smiles slowly; he toys, silently, with the clasp of his watch, the dry Melbourne breeze on his face, Andy's knee warm against his.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
